Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5) (17 page)

“No. I may have made a few suggestions. But I can see now, looking at the painting of the fish there in the waves—what is it called?”

“
Fish in Wave.”

“Yes, that’s a splendid title! I can see a kind of buoyancy in it that so few beginners could ever be able to master. But listen to me: we can hardly call you a beginner any more, can we?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“The bottom line, Nina, is something that several of the members have asked me. Actually, they have asked me to ask you.”

“Ask me what?”

“Well…would you take over teaching the class?”

“Would I…”

“Not the entire class, of course. But perhaps one or two classes a month? I’d pay you, of course. We have so much to learn from you!”

And so Nina moved her easel to the center of Emily Peterson’s classroom.

And everyone watched as she painted.

And everyone nodded in approval.

And the money rolled in.

Which it did, for everyone concerned, including Michael.

As it happened, the second Tuesday in December (it was very cold in Chicago, and a fine snow was beginning to fall), he was making his way up the stairs to the apartment in Pilsen he’d come more frequently to use, for the purpose of doing two things:
 
one, to accept a painting from an operative (Rembrandt’s
Portrait of a Rabbi)
, and two, to have sex with this operative.

He reached the third floor landing, aware simultaneously of the soft murmur of guitar music from a bar down below on the street, and of the howling of the north wind off the lake outside.

The door, he knew, would not be locked.

It was not. He pushed it open.

The room stared back at him.

On its far side, extending into the dormer window space, was the well-made bed.

On the bed, lay a pair of zebra-striped pants.

He crossed the room and picked up a note that had been pinned to the bed cover.

He read:

“Thank you for the English lady. Sorry she will not be joining you for the evening. And thank you also for the painting. We want the rest of them.”

The note had been signed:

“Lorca Reklaw.”

Beneath the signature was the brightly colored (perhaps done with acrylics?) picture of a red claw.

END OF PART TWO

CHAPTER ELEVEN:
 
A DICKENS FABLE

Two days later, Michael Gellert was in another part of Chicago, summoned there by a phone call from Beckmeier.

“Come. Come now. We must talk.”

“Come where?”

Upon asking which, he’d been given an address.

This was strange. He did not know where Beckmeier actually lived, had never been invited into the life of the man.

Something was clearly happening.

He took public transportation—the Brown Line—to the Montrose stop, exited, looked around to see if he was being followed—knowing that anyone following him would probably be very good at the job, and not be noticeable—but looked around anyway, saw no one, and started walking toward the address he’d been given.

He felt as though he was in London.

The weather may have had something to do with that. It was postcard weather. Weather out of Dickens’ London, in one of the ‘good’ chapters, where people were not starving and did not yet have tuberculosis. This was ‘Evening of Christmas Turkey’ London, the city at its gaslit best. A benevolent snow had begun to fall (the sky had been somber all day), each flake the precise size and texture of a pillow feather (no gloppiness), and able to descend of its own accord, pulled to the streets by gravity alone, wafting a bit this way and that, untouched by wind (of which, remarkably, there was none), and so beautifully backlit by streetlamps as to resemble a tiny part of the setting of an operatic Act Four, an instant before the first notes had been played.

All of the houses were the same. They were not “houses,” in the sense that most Americans thought of “houses.” They did not have carports. They were not made of red brick, nor painted white. They were identical, slate-granite gray buildings, set the same distance back from the quiet, broad sidewalks, precisely three stories high, with two windows in each floor, through the curtains of which could be seen shadowbox illustrations. If the setting was Dickens, the casting was Henry James.

Behind the curtains of every window, illuminated by a glowing yellow lamp, was some fragment…a flower, the corner of a painting, several glasses sitting on the dinner table—of exquisiteness.

The neighborhood was so quiet that he could hear, or thought he could hear, each individual snowflake falling on the sidewalk, and making the same sound a cornflake would make falling on a carpet.

Cars lined the streets as paintings lined the walls of museums—meant to be seen and not actually “used”—except the cars were snow-covered.

They did not move.

People did not attempt to drive them; not on these silent, shrouded streets.

They simply sat there, as symbols of wealth and ownership, bothering no one, and parked too close together to be extricated, even should the necessity have arisen.

He located the correct address and began climbing the stone steps leading to the doorway. Normally, he would have grasped the black metal handrail beside him, to keep from slipping.

But this was not the kind of snow one could slip on. It was a higher grade of snow—dry, quiet, and supportive—than was found elsewhere in the city.

He rang the bell.

There might have been a sound somewhere deep in the bowels of the great animal of a building looming before him; but it might also have been nothing more than the near-silent shifting of the earth’s crust.

After a few seconds, a butler opened the door.

“Good evening, sir.”

“I’m Gellert.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think Herr Beckmeier is expecting me.”

“Come in, sir. Let me take your coat.”

He did so, then walked inside.

All around him were the soft colors of money and time.

Save for the butler, who, having carefully hung the overcoat was moving soundlessly away, he found himself alone.

He walked through the hallway, into the living room, along another corridor, into another living room (how many living rooms were there? How far back, and up, did this mansion extend?)––but his mind became fixed on things other than the physical dimensions of the house.

There…on the wall opposite what seemed a massive end table––hung Raphael’s
Portrait of a Young Girl
.

No one, as far as he knew, even knew of the location of the painting, which was, he knew, generally referred to only as
The Portrait
.

It was like walking through a forest, unaware of the existence of silent eyes, motionless animals in hiding. Until something about the light, something about an adjustment in vision…something changed, and there were the shining-dime eyes of a rabbit in the brush.

No brush here, though.

Clear, straight, and unobstructed on the walls:

In the dining room:

Parable of the Vine
, by Domenico Fretti

In the small library:

The Nativity
, by Correggio’s pupil, DiCredi.

And on the opposite wall:

A Correggio.

No copy, no offshoot, partially finished, somewhat damaged:

No, an actual Correggio.

The Adoration of Christ
.

Who was this man, this employer of his, this Beckmeier?

He continued to wander through the mansion.

Finally, he found himself in a room even more intimate, and also darker, than any he’d seen before. A suit of armor stood at attention near the fireplace––all of the rooms had fireplaces––and a crystal chandelier hung heavily above, revolving slowly and inexplicably in a complete lack of breeze. He could see three paintings, one on each of the walls before and on either side of him: two deep green and red portraits he recognized at Chirico’s, and a third which was unmistakably Caravaggio’s
Nativity
.

His eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light, the quarter light, the almost complete absence of light…and in the glow of coals and the faint flicker of dying flames, he saw that dotted around the room, on various pieces of furniture, were thirteenth and fourteenth century metal chalices: Sansovino’s terracotta
Madonna col Bambino
, and a small bust by Nanni di Banco.

“They’re very fine pieces, are they not?”

For the first time, he recognized that his employer was in the room with him.

“Please––sit down. Something to drink? Brandy?”

“No, thank you,” he said, allowing himself to be engulfed by a massive green leather chair. “I’m fine.”

“You do not drink a great deal, do you, Mr. Gellert?”

“No.”

“Admirable.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, it is. Well. Thank you for coming.”

“I had to come. I work for you.”

He could see the man more clearly now: his half-shrug, his half smile.

“That will, regrettably, have to change.”

“Why?”

“Circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“Do I actually have to tell you?”

“I suppose not. It’s Red Claw, isn’t it?”

“It seems always to be Red Claw. He is somewhat of an irresistible force, something impossible to be reckoned with.”

“What’s happened now?”

The figure of Beckmeier was growing more clear now as Gellert’s eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light in the room. He was dressed in a dark green silken robe; and with his silver hair, perfectly combed of course, his mustache, his goatee—he could have played Mephistopheles in
Faust
.

“He has apparently discovered my—my abode.”

“You mean here?”

A smile.

Sulfur. Brimstone.

“No, of course not. This is merely a stopping place for me.”

“A stopping place? With more than a dozen priceless paintings?”

“A place of transition. The paintings are brought here by operatives such as the ones you employ. They hang for a time and are admired by a few of my close…”

“Friends?”

“Acquaintances, my dear young Gellert. I have long since ceased to have friends. But as I say, they rest here for a time, these paintings, and then are transferred on to southern Austria.”

Michael Gellert waited.

“There, in my Castle Eggenburg, I have over the years amassed a truly impressive collection.”

“And now Lorca Reklaw has learned where this ‘domicile’ is.”

“So I am told by my sources.”

“What will happen?”

Beckmeier shrugged.

“What always happens when objects of true beauty exist. They will become, like suns, the center of violent universes.”

“I assume then that you’re not going to allow Lorca Reklaw simply to walk in and take back his paintings.”

“They’re my paintings. He’s simply under the illusion that they are his. Or his people’s. He’s also under the illusion that he’s invincible. That no one knows where he is. That he himself cannot be made to disappear.”

“And he is wrong in believing this?”

“Very wrong. As he may learn quite soon.”

“So a small war is going to happen.”

“Perhaps not so very small as all that. But the hills of southern Austria are quite remote. It will be a war carried on, let us say, out of sight of the public. There are a few villages nearby. They employ constables, etc. But I also employ these people, and have for some time.”

“You are the law of the land.”

“I am simply a feudalistic leader.”

“From the old days.”

“From the better days, when the Hapsburgs ran Vienna, and the minor aristocracy ran the countryside. You know, if you visit the Franziskaner Kirche in Vienna, in the basement, where all of the Habsburgs are buried in lead coffins—you will see that the burial place of Franz Josef is covered in flowers. Fresh flowers. Brought in daily.”

“I must remember to do that.”

“Yes, do, dear boy. It will give you an inkling of why the people of the surrounding area appreciate—well, who I am, and how I live. But that is all mere background. Foreground is that our business has been, sadly, concluded. I shall be transporting these paintings to Austria—how I do so is not your concern. Then I shall, as I mentioned, move there myself. I’ve been home far too little. And I shall set about protecting the paintings I have, rather than procuring new ones. At least for the time being. As for you, whatever method you’ve been using for the past months—as effective as it has been––must now be terminated.”

“I understand.”

“Also, I must tell you—and this is not easy––”

“Go on.”

“No one, who’s been involved in this operation, can be considered safe. Not even you.”